


Summer Son

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Challenge Response, F/M, Seaside, post-Waterloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:10:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19422910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: Challenge response. They're supposed to be going to the coast for the day, but Boyd is late... Complete. Enjoy!





	Summer Son

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

* * *

**Summer Son**

by Joodiff

* * *

Boyd is drifting. It's hot and sunny, and he's drifting along slow and serene somewhere between awake and asleep, only the distant sound of squabbling seagulls really anchoring him to any specific place. He's by the sea, of course, because at times like this he's _always_ by the sea. The soft grittiness of warm sand against bare skin, the pungent, elemental smell of brine. Drifting gently without a care in the world, eyes closed, mind at rest, all thoughts and questions held at bay.

Could be Canvey Island, could be St Tropez. He doesn't know. Or care. He could be thirty or thirteen, fifty or fifteen. Doesn't know or care about that, either. Nothing to disturb the endless, peaceful drift.

"Blood pressure's dropping through the floor," an urgent voice says. Male, unfamiliar. Disconnected.

Meaningless. Irrelevant.

He's always loved the sun and the summer. Never been known to keep his shirt on mowing the lawn at home, or to retreat into the dappled shade sitting in a pub garden by the river at the weekend. Tans quick and easy. Never… well, _rarely_ … burns. Probably gets that from his mother's side of the family with its alleged distant splash of exotic Mediterranean DNA. Gets tetchy every winter when the damp and the cold begin to bite and the grim spectre of bronchitis rises to lurk around every corner.

Summer sun. Summer son. Cancerian.

Doesn't really believe in any of that mystical mumbo-jumbo stuff.

"We need to get a line in," another voice, female this time, says.

He doesn't miss the calm but strong note of authority in her tone. Is almost tempted to pull himself out of his pleasant dream, open his eyes and peer at her. The inevitable, innate attraction to strong women who know their own damn minds and face the world with fearless independence.

"Peter?" the male voice says, as he's almost sure it did once before. "Peter, stay with us."

But he's _not_ with them. Is he?

Seagulls. Sand.

He used to love the annual family seaside holidays as a kid. Nothing fancy, just a week or two at the coast in Essex, or perhaps even Hampshire or Dorset. Not more than a couple of hours or so from home, really, but a whole other world to him. Catching little darting fish and small but feisty crabs in rockpools, playing naked in the light surf with the unselfconscious joy and delight of a young child temporarily transported to an idyllic fantasy world of pirates and shipwrecks. Different times.

There was a brief, strained honeymoon somewhere by the sea once, he's sure. Devon, or Cornwall? One or the other. Which county? Which _wife_ , come to that?

Sex on the beach is vastly overrated, in Boyd's somewhat sheepish experience. In England, at least, with its grey seas and often equally grey skies. Might be somewhat different in the Caribbean.

He's not in the Caribbean.

But… where is he, really?

Confusion at last breaking through the numb detachment, Boyd starts to question the strange state he finds himself in.

And then, through the retreating comforting tranquillity, he starts to feel the pain. It's hot and heavy, like molten lead pouring over and through his entire body. The increasing agony grinds into him, seeming to centre in his chest, and he starts to fight against it, lashing out with visceral strength as it attempts to drag him away from the calm drifting place and back into the harsh, bright light of…

Reality.

-oOo-

He's late. It's infuriating, of course, because Grace has been ready for almost half an hour, which is unprecedented, but it's unsettling, too. Peter Boyd is _never_ late without a dramatic, or at least significant, reason. He's always punctual, if not early, and she knows he likes it that way because it gives him the moral high ground. Allows him to grumble and growl as he paces up and down and waits for whoever or whatever is delaying him. Today, though, _she_ is ready and _he_ is late. Unaware that her lips are tightly pursed, Grace returns to the front window and peers out at the quiet residential street that has been her home for many, many years. There's still no sight of the jaunty little classic roadster – the promised form of transport for their trip to the coast – or even of the sleek new black Jaguar XF that was his retirement present to himself and still has less than two thousand miles on the clock.

Perhaps he's stuck in traffic. Really, though, that's an absurd notion. The morning rush was over at least a couple of hours ago, and Boyd does not, in general, get stuck in traffic. Not in London. He knows too many obscure shortcuts, has too good a working knowledge of the intricate tangle of streets that still bewilders her after more than three decades' worth of painful experience. He can weasel his way through to just about anywhere without getting lost, and that, too, has often been a bone of contention between them. He doesn't understand how, after so many years, she can _still_ take a wrong turn and find herself endlessly going around and around in circles in the complicated, frustrating maze.

Where _is_ he?

As she drums her fingers on the wooden windowsill, Grace checks her watch again, but less than three minutes have elapsed since her last impatient glance. A surge of irritation makes her catch herself and force the matter back into perspective. It doesn't _matter_ if he's late. They're not due anywhere in particular at any specific time, after all. The day ahead is supposed to be a quiet, relaxing one. Just him and her, out of London, enjoying each other's company without stress or expectation. The next delicate step on the road to what is looking more and more like a secure joint future together.

Not that they're exactly love's young dream, of course.

Still.

Consciously letting go of the creeping prickle of annoyance Grace leans her shoulder against the edge of the casement window and watches as a very elderly man with a small brown dog on a thin leash totters past heading in the general direction of the small park a couple of streets away. He looks content, the man, as if he's made peace with everything that's happened in his life and is determined to spend his last years as serenely as possible. She can't picture Boyd going so contentedly into his dotage, even in another twenty or more years' time. Far too restless. He's mellowed, of course, over the long stretch of time they've known each other – though she doubts he would ever admit as much. Mellowed enough to get them where they are now, more-or-less an official couple with at least broadly similar aims and objectives.

She made sure her bedroom was clean and tidy and that there were fresh sheets on the bed before heading downstairs to wait for him.

They smashed through _that_ infamous boundary almost two weeks ago, leaving whatever remained of years of professional propriety lying in splendid ruins, but not here, not in this house. _Her_ house. Whether that matters, Grace isn't sure. Tonight, though… tonight when he brings her home he will stay. He might not know it yet, but he will. Tomorrow they will eat breakfast together in _her_ kitchen. Or her bedroom. Either is fine with her.

She's struck by the absurdity of the direction of her wandering thoughts. She's far too old, surely, to be so, well… _infatuated_. If that's indeed what she is. After all, she's known the damn man for well over a decade, for heaven's sake…

But…

Well. It's _him_ , isn't it? Peter-bloody-Boyd, the exasperating, unpredictable devil on her shoulder for far longer than she cares to think about.

_He was gentle,_ she thinks, as the old man and his dog finally disappear from sight leaving the street empty again. _Astonishingly gentle, and when I –_

On the other side of the room, the house phone begins to ring, jerking her out of her reflective reverie. In motion almost before she's aware of it, Grace wonders what his excuse will be, how he will explain his tardiness. Wonders, too, how much considered charm he will deploy in an attempt to placate her. Picking up the receiver, she offers a tart and weary, "Yes…?"

-oOo-

Boyd can't breathe. He's all alone in the blackness, and he can't breathe. Dislocated in time and space, he tries to shout for his brother, trusting his heroic older sibling to rescue him, but he hasn't got the breath for it, and the intense pressure that seems to be bearing down on his chest is much too great. The floor… did the half-rotten wooden beams of the derelict building give way under his weight? He thinks they did. Thinks he plummeted down from the dark, dusty attic space with its cobwebs, roosting bats – pipistrelles according to his father – and missing tiles, and landed awkwardly below on the debris-strewn floor of what once might have been a child's bedroom.

Yes. For a moment the memory is crystal clear. The beam snapped and down he went, limbs flailing uselessly.

Greenstick fracture of his left tibia, two broken ribs, and a chipped tooth. Massive bruising. A whole blissful week off school, and then many, many more spent hobbling around on crutches as his leg –

_School_ …?

He was… eight? Nine? Robert ran all the way home to get help… didn't he?

Robert lives in Scotland. Two adult children, both now married. A three-year-old grandson called Leo.

What the fuck is…?

And everything goes away again.

-oOo-

"I'm sorry," she says again, parrot-fashion, her voice high with stress, "I know you're incredibly busy up there, but – "

"Grace," the calm, reassuring voice interrupts, simultaneously firm and gentle, "it's really not a problem. What else did they tell you?"

She takes a deep, steadying breath. It helps. "Not much. The driver of the van that broadsided him has been arrested. Dangerous driving, I think. He was on his phone and – "

"I meant, about Boyd," Eve says, patient as ever.

"Oh." Flustered, she draws another deep breath. "They're talking to Robert now."

"He's there?" Eve sounds surprised. "I thought he lived somewhere near Glasgow?"

Aware of the futility, Grace nods. "He does. He's on his way to the airport now. When they wouldn't tell me anything, I insisted they called him."

A grunt of acknowledgement is followed by, "Have you seen him? Boyd?"

"Only for a few seconds as they transferred him to ICU…" Grace hears her voice falter. Fights to regain her composure. She prays her voice won't crack as she adds, "He's in a mess, Eve."

"Probably looks worse than it is," their erstwhile colleague says, still sounding calm and pragmatic. "If they've put a chest drain in, and they haven't taken him to theatre, chances are he's holding his own. With a traumatic pneumothorax taking the patient to ICU is pretty much standard procedure. They'll monitor him for a bit, then reassess his condition. Did they mention other injuries?"

"Not really… I'm not his next-of-kin, so…"

"Call me back when you've spoken to Robert," Eve tells her. "Look, I've got to go, but call me, Grace. Okay?"

"I will," she promises, and means it. "I'm going to try to get hold of Spence now. Maybe he'll be able to find out more about what actually happened."

-oOo-

_Peter._

He knows that voice. Oh yes. Resting in the grey limbo-land between dead and alive, he's surprised how easy it is to answer it. "What?"

_Oh, just as charming as ever._

There isn't sight, not in the foggy not-world, but there is memory, and memory provides her face. Solemn sea-grey eyes regard him and they don't. He grunts. But not really, because speech, any kind of sound, is a complete illusion here, too.

_It's time to go back, Peter. She's waiting for you._

"'She'?"

_You know who I mean. She's alone and she's frightened, and she needs you._

"I don't…"

_Yes, you do._ There's an edge of mild irritation in the non-voice that doesn't really exist, here or anywhere else. _You can't kid a kidder, remember? Pull yourself together. You've had a close call, but you're not dead yet._

" _You_ are," he accuses, looking up into those familiar, mesmerising eyes. The old, old pain flares for a moment, then dies back to smouldering embers. "Christ, I miss you."

_Don't get sentimental on me, Spike. It's disturbing._

Spike. The big tenacious grey bulldog from that old cartoon series that they seemed to watch on endless repeat as they tried to get the baby to sleep. He never saw the joke, but _she_ did. Spike. _Spiky_.

Hilarious.

"So's talking to a fucking ghost," he grumbles.

She laughs softly, and it's the best and worst thing he's heard for a long, long time. _You always did have such a way with words._

"Must've been why you married me."

_Must have been._ One elegant eyebrow rises an interrogative fraction. _You do know you can't stay here, don't you? This place… is not for you. You have to go back._

"I'm tired, Mary. So fucking tired."

_It's not time to let go, Pete. Not yet. It's time to find your way back._

"Luke – "

_You'll see him again. One day. Not today._ A gentle smile. _Go back to her. She loves you, and in your heart you know it. You've known it for a long time._

Confusion begins to dig its brutal claws into him again. "Mary…"

It's too late. The light and the noise and the pain are returning with the speed and force of a tidal wave, crashing into him and ripping him out of the numb, soundless, colourless place.

-oOo-

Boyd comes back fighting, going from restless semi-consciousness to full-awareness and trying to remove his oxygen mask in less than half a minute. Grace, promoted to a place at his bedside by the grudging authority of the ward sister after an irascible phone call from Robert, and by the fortuitous downgrade from intensive care to the high dependency unit, is on her feet and trying to soothe him in an instant. The dark eyes above the plastic mask look frantic, desperate, but the sound of her voice seems to calm the worst of his initial wild panic, and when he snatches at the mask again, he doesn't seem to have the strength to put up more than token resistance to her determined efforts to stop him.

She keeps hold of his hand – cool and slightly clammy – and voices a choked, "Relax. You're in hospital, but you're going to be fine…"

If anything, however, his confusion seems to deepen. His voice is weak, breathless, and muffled by the mask. "Hospital…?"

Grace nods and squeezes his hand. "You were involved in an RTA. A van hit you on Holloway Road. Pulled straight out of a side road and broadsided you."

"There was a beach…" Boyd mutters, bruised features set in a heavy frown.

"We were going to go to the coast," she says, guessing that's what he means, "but I think that'll have to be postponed for a while now."

The frown doesn't lift. If anything, it deepens. "I was… Mary was… She said…"

It's the head injury, Grace assumes. The old car isn't – _wasn't_ – equipped with modern safety features, and there's a deep gash on his forehead where his head hit the steering wheel. No fracture, according to the x-rays, but a severe impact nonetheless. She thinks it will leave a permanent scar. "Shh," she hushes him, fighting against the tears she can feel beginning to well up, "don't worry about it now. I'll find the doctor, she can – "

"Mary," he says again, stubborn now. It seems to be costing him everything to force the harsh, breathy words out, and she wonders about the strain he's putting on the collapsed lung that the doctors say will take several days to reinflate properly. "Where's Mary?"

How on earth should she answer him? Mary's been gone a long, long time. Cancer. They were separated by then, of course, though not divorced, but she knows the impact the loss had on him. And on their already wayward son. Trying for bright and breezy, she says, "We can talk about that later, Peter. For now – "

Boyd pulls his hand free from hers, summoning at least a little strength. The frown has become an accusing glare. He stares at her with a stony, distant irritation that chills her. "Don't patronise me, whoever the hell you are. I want to see my _wife_."

_Whoever the hell you are…_

Those cold, hard eyes…the dispassionate way they stare at her…

Her world lurches out of kilter, all the warmth and hope and light flooding out of it in an instant.

"Peter…?" It's just a whisper, really. A frightened, disbelieving whisper. There's no trace of recognition in Boyd's expression. None at all. With sick, gut-wrenching certainly Grace finally understands. And is horrified.

His breathing is harsh, laboured. He makes no attempt to speak. Just stares at her with impassive blankness.

The way he would stare at a complete stranger.

At someone he has absolutely no memory of…

_\- the end -_

* * *

_Challenge rules: seaside; must contain the following words: fish, crab, bat (mammal), naked, phone, seagull, and drums or drumming. Word limit: 1-3K words._


End file.
